


Entrench

by dormiensa



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Aftermath, Fluff, Missing Scene, reader can decide on the nature of their relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-16
Updated: 2019-06-16
Packaged: 2020-05-12 17:11:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19233529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dormiensa/pseuds/dormiensa
Summary: In the aftermath of the Nahpocalypse, the demon prepares for battle with a return to the flat…





	Entrench

As soon as he stepped across the threshold, he sensed it. There was something foreign inside the flat. Honing in on the sensation, he approached the door of the study, which was ajar. And that’s when he saw it.

“Oh, merciful Lord in Heaven!”

There lay the crumpled trench coat across the floor in the doorway. Gingerly, he lifted it up and saw the puddle of pristine water. 

Collecting himself, he went into the kitchen in search of supplies. After looking through several cupboards and drawers—and noting with dismay how bare most of them were—he finally found a large enough storage bag to contain the coat, secured the opening, and brought the package out to the garbage chute for disposal, all the while muttering about how it was best to be cautious; humans had the right idea about cross-contamination.

Confronting the puddle once more, he shook his head and gave another thanks to Agnes Nutter for her timely warning. He’d had the epiphany during their ride back to London. About the punishment they would each face once their si—former sides got hold of them. They were both agreed that punishment was imminent. Gabriel was as vindictive as Beelzebub. Sandalphon may have been responsible for Sodom and Gomorrah, but Gabriel had carried out the orders for the plagues of Egypt that the grumpy Moses had forewarned about.

Aziraphale huffed. It had always miffed him whenever he examined the rare Bibles that arrived at his bookshop to see how humans only remembered the delightful jobs that Gabriel had strong-armed his way to undertake: the Anunciation and Daniel’s dreams. 

He found the tartan thermos cleverly hidden behind one of the potted plants, paused only a moment to compliment it on its brilliant viridescence, and returned to the kitchenette for a spoon or ladle. But then he thought better of it: like the disposed-of coat, there was risk to Crowley’s well-being if any of his possessions had been in contact with the holiest of waters. Sighing, the angel knelt before the puddle and carefully coaxed it back into the thermos. Having properly capped it, he was about to pick up the receiver when he recalled Crowley’s warning about the entrapped demon.

“Bugger.”

He looked about the room.

“Oh, surely not.” But indeed, when he pried open the false front of the safe, it stared inscrutably back at him. He closed his eyes, pressed his hand against the lock, and said, “Open sesame. Please.” There was a click.

Elated at his accomplishment, he returned to the room of plants. He couldn’t help it, really. After all, he’d spent almost eleven years as a gardener on Earth. And while nothing could ever compare to _The_ Garden in perfection, he could now openly admit in his mind that when it came to inventive varieties, especially in application, humans had the edge. Who amongst the angels would have thought to use plants for healing or to inhale the burnt remains? Although use of the latter to cause harm was most certainly the doing of Crowley’s camp. The demon had sulked for weeks when he’d discovered he’d been outsmarted by one of the fledglings just risen up the ranks.

Pushing aside those memories, the angel approached each plant and complimented either their lushness or height or general bloom. He petted and stroked and was pleased by the almost imperceptible (to human ears, at least) susurration. He told them fondly to not heed Crowley’s threats, for behind the anger was a genuine concern for their welfare. Of course, they must continue to show fear, for it would not do to repay Crowley’s kindness by wounding his pride—appearances matter, and even though he was no longer on _that_ side, it would take some time to adjust. The poor soul had been through a lot in the past week, so best not to aggravate him.

Aziraphale finally bid goodnight and headed toward the bedroom, where he dutifully spent a good amount of time practising and perfecting the swagger before the full length mirrors. Then returned them to face the walls again. Crowley’s paranoia could never allow intruders to thus surprise him with an unexpected visit. 

When he finally settled into the bed—he really _must_ remember to ask where Crowley got his linens, they were so luxurious!—he began to think of possible responses to the eventual interrogation while the body rested. It was a funny thing how ethereal beings—and occult ones, of course—did not need rest or sustenance or, indeed, maintenance of any kind, but, by the same token, could not experience existence through the senses quite like humans. He’d read up on the matter, about nerve endings and feedback loops, but he still marveled at it. 

Stepping onto the pavement outside the building the following morning, he couldn’t repress a smile of delight when he noticed the pristine condition of the Bentley across the street before hailing a taxi to bring him to St. James’ Park.

**Author's Note:**

> methinks that all public transport (and taxi) drivers and passengers are made to forget the presence and conversations of a certain angel and a certain demon. 'twouldn't do to have these chats repeated and spread around. one never knows who's listening. crowley probably used the memory wipes to also evade having to pay the fare, though aziraphale likely would've paid for both.


End file.
